Helping Kian didn't look like saving a kingdom.
There were no spells to cast, no glowing symbols to draw in the air. There was just cold, hunger, and the quiet weight of a world that expected nothing good to happen.
It started small.
I learned which streets flooded first when it rained. Which buildings still had electricity if you stood in the right corner and waited. Which shop owners would look the other way if you asked nicely and didn't ask too often.
Kian watched me with open suspicion.
"You move like someone who isn't scared," he said one evening as we shared stale bread on the steps of the station.
"I am scared," I replied. "I just don't let it decide for me."
He snorted. "Must be nice."
"It's exhausting," I said honestly.
That earned a real smile. Brief, but real.
I noticed things about him as days passed. How he always stood between me and traffic without thinking. How he never slept deeply, like his body had learned not to trust rest. How rain made him quieter, heavier.
One night, I found him on the rooftop again, staring at the city like it had personally wronged him.
"You don't have to keep watch," I said.
"If I stop," he replied, "everything catches up."
I sat beside him anyway. The concrete was cold, the wind sharp.
"What happened to you?" I asked.
He didn't answer right away.
Then, very calmly, he said, "This city takes people. One by one. My family went first. Then my friends. I stayed because someone had to remember they existed."
The words settled between us, heavy and unmoving.
"I won't disappear," I said quietly.
He laughed without humor. "Everyone does."
"Not me."
He turned to me, eyes sharp. "You don't know that."
I almost told him the truth then. About other worlds. Other boys. Other goodbyes.
But this world didn't deserve lies wrapped in hope.
So instead, I proved myself.
When he got sick, I stayed awake all night. When he ran out of money, I found work cleaning storefronts and carrying crates. When he spiraled into silence, I stayed anyway, even when he pushed.
Especially when he pushed.
"You shouldn't care this much," he told me once, voice low and tired.
"I know," I replied.
"Why do it then?"
I hesitated.
Because if I didn't, this world would take you too.
"Because you're here," I said instead.
Something shifted after that.
He started waiting for me.
Started telling me things. Small memories. Sharp regrets. Dreams he pretended he didn't have anymore.
One evening, the rain paused—just for a moment.
We stood under a flickering streetlight, the city oddly quiet.
"You make this place feel less heavy," he said.
I swallowed. "You make it feel worth surviving."
He looked at me like he didn't know what to do with that.
The doorway hadn't appeared yet.
But my body felt wrong—like it was bracing for something. The multiverse doesn't like interference. It especially doesn't like attachment.
That night, I dreamed of cracks spreading through the sky.
Not magical ones.
Ugly ones.
When I woke, Kian was asleep on the floor beside the bed, just to make sure I didn't leave.
I stared at the ceiling, heart aching.
I had helped save a magical world by leaving it.
This one?
This one would demand more.
And for the first time, I realized something terrifying.
I didn't want to leave.